Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

I reached Conroy’s street and made the turn. I had no idea what I expected to find. What I didn’t expect to find were lights on in his house and two cars parked in front—Conroy’s blue Toyota and one I didn’t recognize. Now who could be visiting at this hour, apart from a hyperactive attorney with time on her hands and nowhere else to go?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Okay, I thought. Don’t be ridiculous. Conroy might have a female visitor. He’s entitled to a social life.

Assuming that’s who the visitor was. I hate assumptions.

I noted the car was a silver late-model compact with Delaware tags.

So, now what? Bust in on Conroy at nearly 3:00 in the morning, probably in flagrante delicto?

The guy already loved me, so that would go over really well.

I pulled up to the curb across the street and watched the house. In a window, a shadow flickered past the blind. Then another.

“Hmm.” I squirmed and tapped a staccato beat on the wheel. Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Nothing.

As my watch crept up on the twenty-minute mark, I prepared to exit the car, figuring I’d sneak up to a window and take a peek inside. That’s when I saw it coming up the street. The beat-up green Chevy with the walleyed headlights.

I slammed the door shut, started the car and took off. The green Chevy did a three-point turn in a driveway and followed.

“What the hell?” I muttered. I put my foot to floor and careened out onto the highway, tires screeching.

The green Chevy lumbered around the corner and roared after me.

Despite the hour, I still had to contend with some traffic. Very little, but enough to make driving 80 miles an hour a bit more than a walk in the park. No choice. Whatever it took, I had to get rid of this pest on my tail.

One problem: I was headed straight into downtown Ocean City. I needed to go in the other direction. On this course, I’d end up at a dead end and a turnabout. I kept going, not knowing what else to do, zooming by block after block. I glanced up in the rear view. The Chevy was gaining on me.

But Jamila’s Beemer had the power to go toe-to-toe with the vintage muscle car. I stood on the gas pedal. I was almost airborne. Gaining distance now. I passed a bus and cut in front with room to spare. Smashed my foot on the brake. Made a quick turn at the next street. Kept going, checking the rear view. No sign of the Chevy. Must have passed the street. I turned into a deserted alley, jerked to a stop and gulped in air.

Once I’d brought my breathing under control, I asked myself who the hell would want to follow me and why.

I thought back to when I’d first seen the green car. My gut clenched.

The car had first appeared at Curtis Little’s trailer park, the last time I’d tried to see him. The last time, as far as I knew, that he’d been alive.

*****

All right. If I assumed that Little was involved in illicit drug trafficking with Dwayne Sutterman, perhaps the people in the green car had something to do with that. Or not. I was too tired to think straight and way too wired, especially after racing like a stunt driver down Coastal Highway, to just go home and go to bed.

I placed my forehead on the wheel and let my mind go blank for a moment.

It was Thursday and time was ticking down until Jamila’s presentation. Plus Jinx was threatening to expose everything about my ill-advised fling with Ray unless I played ball with her. And I felt no closer to understanding anything.

I closed my eyes and drifted off for a moment.

I opened them and jerked upright. The sky was still dark, but lightening to the east. I checked my watch. 5:30? Good grief. I rubbed my eyes. I had a crick in my neck. My forehead felt sore where it had lain against the wheel. I massaged both areas.

Then my phone rang.

I picked it up and opened it.

“Yeah.” I sounded like a groaning wooden board.

“Sam?” It was Jamila. She sounded worried.

“Hi. Yeah. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” I sputtered the words. I couldn’t seem to make long sentences.